


I'm Not the Only One Lying

by Roehrborn



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: 3x19, Canon Divergent, Discussion of Hallucinations, Love, M/M, Regret, Sappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 08:41:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11009913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roehrborn/pseuds/Roehrborn
Summary: “You were inducing hallucinations,” Oswald says, voice quiet, “and apparently you saw me.  What I can’t quite figure out iswhy, Ed.”





	I'm Not the Only One Lying

**Author's Note:**

> After all these true-to-episode fics I wanted to indulge myself. So here it is: self-indulgent garbage.
> 
> Pls enjoy  
> ~R

“Because I didn’t love you _back_? Get _over_ it!”

As soon as the words have left his lips, Edward wants to recall them. They reveal something he hadn’t meant to reveal, baring the unseemly fixation he’s developed since Oswald’s “death”. The vulnerability he, himself, has exposed and indulged over the course of the past few months.

Belatedly, Edward realizes that Oswald is staring up at him, expression firm and determined. He opens his mouth to respond, and Edward suddenly _knows_ , with a swooping premonitory sense, that he doesn’t want to hear it.

“I saw you,” he blurts, and suppresses a reactionary wince, turning away from Oswald so as to hide his expression.

The dungeon is silent for a few heartbeats. Then there’s a rustle of clothing and a shuffle that signifies Oswald rising to his feet. “While I was dead?” Oswald asks, voice inflectionless. Edward sucks in a shaky breath and raises his hand to his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses.

“I didn’t mean to say that,” he says finally.

“And yet, you did,” Oswald observes, voice light with humor. “And I have to admit, Ed, you’ve got me curious, now.”

“ _Oswald_ ,” he protests, voice raspy with suppressed emotion.

“ _Edward_ ,” Oswald responds, voice mocking.

“You--”

“What, did you think you saw me on the sidewalk in a crowd? Blinked your eyes, and the next moment I was gone?” Oswald pursues, warming to his theme. Edward clenches his hands into fists, fighting against giving a reaction, revealing that Oswald is _getting_ to him. “Or perhaps something more fortuitous? A meeting in a liquor store, perhaps?”

“Enough!” Edward snarls, whirling on his heel to face Oswald. “That is _not_ what I meant!”

“Then what _did_ you mean, Ed?” Oswald asks, quietly, dangerously, his eyes blazing in the dark like candle flame.

“I--” he falters, staring into Oswald’s eyes.

Oswald stares him down, head tilted slightly to the side. For half a moment, in the shadows, he looks so much like the hallucination that Edward begins to worry it really is just his imagination, that this whole thing has been nothing but a fever dream-- _no_. He can’t let himself think like that. He can’t touch his hallucinations, and therefore, this is not a hallucination. This is the real Oswald. Alive, somehow.

“Could this have anything to do with the stash of illegal drugs I found in the medicine cabinet at the manor?” Oswald asks, voice tight with triumph.

“When did you go to the manor?” Edward demands, feeling a sudden confusing sense - did Oswald really _die_ and _come back_ like he’s implying - no, no, that’s impossible.

Oswald eyes him reprovingly. “It _is_ my house. You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes,” Edward says reluctantly, the word torn from him without any permission from his brain.

“You were inducing hallucinations,” Oswald says, voice quiet, “and apparently you saw me. What I can’t quite figure out is _why_ , Ed. I figured they were stimulants--”

“They were,” Edward interjects, stubbornly.

Oswald sneers at him. “Don’t forget, Ed, that for a time _I_ ran the drug trade in Gotham. There are plenty of stimulants which are easier to access and don’t have quite so many side effects.”

“Less effective, though,” Edward insists.

“And how ‘effective’ could you be with one foot in Wonderland, Ed?”

“Very. I made my debut as a villain … I caught the attention of the GCPD … I struck fear in the hearts of Gotham’s populace--”

“So what did you need me for?” Oswald snaps, eyes narrowed.

“I needed… your … _guidance_ ,” Edward growls, voice tearing at his throat. “I _knew_ who I wanted to be. But I didn’t know how to _be_ him.”

“And did you succeed?”

Edward looks up to meet Oswald’s eyes, reflective in the dark. He says nothing, staring at the man who had once been his mentor. Oswald’s lips are quirked, just slightly, but the firm line of his brows indicates that he’s taking this seriously, indeed.

“I thought I had,” Edward forces out, voice ragged.

Oswald meets his eyes unflinchingly. Edward reaches up with one shaking hand to pull his glasses off, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. They’re burning, and his nose feels like it’s running even though he _knows_ it isn’t.

And he hears Oswald takes a step forward.

~

Oswald takes a measured step forward, eying Ed carefully through the bars. Ed’s lip trembles, hand still covering his eyes, and Oswald watches the tell with hungry eyes.

Surely Ed’s lying hasn’t improved _that_ much… Surely, he can believe..?

“Ed,” he says, voice quieter and rougher than he’d intended.

He had spent so long - every waking moment since he had first risen from the dead - convincing himself that he wanted revenge. That nothing but Ed’s utter ruination at his hands would suffice to quell the burning wrath in his soul.

Turning half toward Oswald, Ed’s shoulders rise and fall once, shakily, as he gasps throatily. Oswald frowns automatically, concerned; then Ed drops his hand from his eyes and gazes back at Oswald with glimmering, tear-filled eyes.

It’s that look, bleak and hopeless, which tempers his desire for revenge.

Oswald’s shoulders slump, and he rests the palm of one hand against the bars. Ed’s hand lets go of the bar, reaching out into Oswald’s cage and grasping the smaller man’s hand in his.

“I missed you,” Ed breathes into the quiet. “I missed you the moment you were gone. And it didn’t go away. It was supposed to go _away_ ,” he says, teeth clenched and voice aggravated. Oswald feels sympathy; hilarious, unsuitable sympathy in his gut.

“I still miss my mother,” he offers. “Every day. Even though I’ve made my peace with it.”

“I don’t _miss people_ ,” Edward bites out between gritted teeth. His hand tightens around Oswald’s, clinging to him with uncharacteristic desperation.

“You mean… you don’t miss…” Oswald trails off. He’s not sure if he should mention _her_ name; not sure if that will break the tentative peace between them. It’s too late; Edward’s shoulders stiffen briefly, then relax.

“Not really,” Edward mumbles, head tilted down. “I don’t -- I -- I never saw her, not after.”

Oswald feels gratified, strangely, at that. In a way (in a horrible way) he has won after all.

Well; and he’s still _alive_ , of course.

He raises his other hand to cover Ed’s; his body runs hotter than Oswald’s, feeling almost burning in this cold, damp prison. Oswald drags his thumb across Ed’s knuckles, which are scuffed slightly from some sort of struggle.

Both of them have coarse hands; a frown briefly crosses Oswald’s lips as he considers it. His own were, of course, from the menial labor he had performed under Fish and Maroni and even before then, in assisting his mother when she was housekeeping. He has always been working with his hands, some way or another.

But before Ed had become a killer and member of the criminal underworld, he’d been working as a forensic tech. There really was no reason for him to have such calloused hands…

Belatedly, Oswald realizes just how little he actually knows about Ed. About his past.

“I missed you, too,” Oswald tells Ed. “Whenever I was conscious. I missed you terribly.”

Ed sucks in a hitched breath and shuts his eyes firmly. Then he straightens, squaring his shoulders and opening his eyes. They’re clear, as clear as Oswald has seen them all night, dark and warm and longing.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Edward says breathily into the quiet.

“I don’t want to kill you, either,” Oswald tells him, heart in his throat.

They stare into each other’s eyes. Oswald bites his lip, unsure what to say or what to do. “Where do we go from here?” he asks finally, voice throaty and uneven.

Edward’s eyes dart down to his lips and back up to his eyes. Oswald’s breath hitches.

It feels natural, inevitable, when Ed’s hand comes to rest on the back of Oswald’s neck, drawing him toward the taller man with inexorable desire. Oswald’s eyes flutter closed, his free hand coming up to grasp Ed’s forearm, his heart racing in his chest.

The first press of Ed’s lips against his feel tentative; shy, almost, and a breathy noise escapes Oswald at the sensation. Then Ed’s hand tightens on the back of his neck, pressing, not crushing, and their mouths turn frantic with desire. Oswald gasps against Ed’s mouth, the heat and fervor overwhelming him, the sudden starburst of desire building in him. The bars are suddenly, desperately, in the way, and he presses himself up against them to get as close to Ed as possible. He feels wetness on his cheek, and his eyes flicker open hesitantly.

Ed’s eyes are shut, but brimming over with tears. Oswald reaches up to bury his hand in Ed’s gelled hair, tugging him back just far enough to part their lips. The air between them is shared in soft little breaths, as Ed struggles to regain his composure.

Oswald aches for him.

“I love you, still,” he tells Ed, voice quiet and dark.

“ _I missed you_ ,” Ed whispers back, fervently. And Oswald smiles tearfully at him.

It may be all he can give for now, but it’s enough.


End file.
